There’s a reason I’m not going down the pub tonight, and it’s got me whistling as I peer into the bathroom mirror and try to decide if I’d look better with or without the two-day stubble. The gay scene round here isn’t up to much, this being Hertfordshire and not bloody San Francisco, but such as it is, I’ve been missing it. I haven’t been to any of the bars since I got out of hospital last time. So when I woke up this morning, hard-on the size of a Chieftain tank, I decided tonight’s the night. And then I had a bloody good wank, remembering the last time I went clubbing.
It was just before we got shipped out to Afghanistan. Weird now, thinking of it. Like I was a different person then. S’pose I was, really.
I was a fair bit taller, for one thing.
Taller than the bloke I hooked up with
